


repercussions

by proximally



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bittersweet, Gen, Implied Suicide Attempt, POV Second Person, Post-Soulless Pacifist Route, implied child neglect, sad but not quite angst level?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proximally/pseuds/proximally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You made a mistake, and you pay for it with your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	repercussions

**Author's Note:**

> I've been super busy this week, and it looks like the trend will continue into the next - I should've worked on Bones & Skin while I had the time, but this idea wouldn't leave me aloooone. and also I realised where one of my plot twists for it was taking me and like wow I wanna avoid that but I'm gonna have to think on it a bit.

You made a mistake.

You know that now. You didn’t at the time; you’d spent this do-over angry and afraid and upset, lashing out in all the wrong places. You’d like to be able to say you were forced, that you’d been possessed and had no part in the carnage you caused, but that’s a lie you can’t even tell yourself. You were encouraged, and praised when you obeyed, but it wasn’t even close to coercion. There were no consequences, after all. You could do whatever you wanted. Fight, reset, mercy. Who’d know?

You, for one. Your other half.

_Do you think you are above consequences?_

You’d told Them no, because you were afraid, but They’d been with you since the start: the question was rhetorical. And after that...after that you wanted to try again. Do it right, again. You’d save them all, you’d be a hero again and not the villain, you’d have your friends back and your family, and you’d never hurt them again. And all it cost you was your soul.

You nearly forgot about it, all told. They said nothing to remind you, and it was only watching the sun go down that made you realise it. Perhaps you didn’t know Them as well as They know you, but you’d had a little time to think. The dustbath you made of your last run is entirely on your head: there is no excuse for genocide, and no forgiveness either. You weren’t alone, though, and now that it’s gone you’re starting to see Their commentary for what it was. They wanted this. They didn’t push, They didn’t nudge, They just knew all the right words to keep you going. _Let it out,_ They said, _I know you’re hurting. I understand. It’s okay. You can always go back._ You realise that They’d wanted this, too.

So you tell Toriel you’ve things to do, places to go. You walk to the bus stop you’d come from, and when one arrives it’s weird to you to see another human face. You’d thrown away your bus pass on your ascent and left your scrounged coins at the house: you’d never intended to need them again. You tell the driver you must have dropped your card, and you turn on the waterworks: he’s a dad, and you’re small and dirty and alone and he lets you on anyway. You leave your phone under the seat.

You have all the local bus routes memorised, and you get off in your city forty-five minutes later; another ten minutes brings you to your door. There’s no car in the parking lot, so you take the spare key and let yourself in.

It smells like smoke and junk food, scents that will haunt you forever, but you ignore them: you don’t know how much time you have. You go straight to your room, and you’re immensely pleased to find it untouched. You fill your old backpack with clothes from your wardrobe and bits and pieces you might need - torch, plasters, painkillers. You ransack the kitchen for food and water bottles and, after a moment’s hesitation, you clear out his sock drawer: one thing walking back and forth across the underground taught you is the true value of good socks, and it doesn’t hurt to find a wad of cash buried at the back. It’s not much, just a bundle of fivers, but every little helps and you’re soon on your way.

You walk to the bus station, and from there you get to the station a couple towns over. You sleep in your seat, and though it’s late and dark and the other seats are full of strangers, you’re not afraid of them. You suspect that, despite everything, you’re the only one here with blood (dust) on your hands. You’re scarier than all of them, and they don’t know a thing.

You find a secluded alleyway when you get to your stop: someone’ll only call the police or - worse - the child protection services, if you sleep at the station. You eat a little of the cereal you packed, and curl up in your coat.

You repeat the process, again and again. Sometimes it’s buses, sometimes it’s trains, and one memorable time you crawled into the back of a pick-up. You steal food and sleep when you can, drink from public water fountains and bathrooms, and wash yourself and your clothes as often as you can afford to because a lone, dirty child raises all kinds of alarm bells you’d rather went unrung.

You pass TV stores sometimes, and occasionally you bother to read the newspapers you sleep on. The monsters - your friends, your family - are looking for you. They’re not getting anywhere, of course. Frisk is your name, but it’s not the one written on your birth certificate. They don’t even have a picture of you, just a description, and you’ve ditched your jumper and cut your hair since then. You even found a pair of glasses that don’t give you too many headaches, for those occasions when you particularly need to look like a schoolkid. They never find your phone: timeline resets aren’t the only resets you’re capable of, and though you miss the pictures you’d taken, you know the thing had GPS.

You travel as far away from the mountain, from the best friends you’ve ever had, as you possibly can. They haven’t given up on you, you know that, but you’ve left them no leads. He never even bothered to fill out a missing persons report, never cared enough, and you’d got on a bus to Mt. Ebott at the start of summer so your school hadn’t noticed your absence either.

They do, though. September rolls around, two and a half months after you broke the Barrier and all ties to everyone you ever knew. The school phones him about you. He tells them you’re ill, every day for a week, before one day they call when he’s out of his head and he tells them you vanished three months ago. They contact the police. As he’s taken to court, you’re listed as missing and your tragic story is splashed on every front page. Your real family recognises your old photos, and the hunt is on.

You keep your hair short and weather the headaches of the glasses, steal clothes that aren’t your style off washing lines, and trade your hat for an uglier one. You stop taking public transport, and you’re always on the lookout for security cameras - there’s a chance they could track you with footage from the buses, so you only walk to the next point of civilisation.

You’re afraid. You’ve been afraid all this time, but now that you know they might find you soon, it’s worse. You can’t go back. You don’t know when They will manifest Themselves and make good on your deal, but you know what will happen when They do and you need to be as far away and as lost as possible before that time. You save continuously: you won’t make it _that_ easy for Them, you can’t let Them desecrate that one last perfect sunset. At least if They reset after that, it won’t be your face your friends see as they die, just a stranger’s. It’s selfish. _God,_ it’s selfish, but what else are you supposed to do? They’ll forget about you eventually, they’ll live their own lives and, if all goes well, they’ll never see you again. You’ll do your best to protect them in this timeline, if not in the next, and you’ll fight Them with all you have. This is the life you have made for yourself, and you will face the consequences of your mistakes.

You keep walking. You walk so far you reach the border, and since you can’t cross it here, you walk along it. You find an unguarded section, eventually, and you take the opportunity. You’ll be safe here, hopefully. Nobody would ever imagine that you could have made it this far, and They’ll have a lot more trouble crossing the border from this direction. You’ve done it. You’re cold and tired and hungry and aching and you’ve been this way since what feels like forever, but you’ve done it. They’ll never find you, and the thing in your head will never find them.

You walk some more, but then you stop. It’s a small village. You don’t speak the language, but you are small and exhausted and still smiling, faintly, and they find space for you. You do your very best to pay them back, and you allow yourself a little happiness, though you do not deserve it. They become your newest family, but they’ll never top your last one and though they have earned their place in your heart, they don’t fill the hole your monster family left you with.

You hear news of them, sometimes; less often than before. They’re all alive and well. Reintegration is going smoothly. They haven’t given up on you, but they’ve stopped looking.

That hurts more than you thought it would.

You should feel relief. You should be happy that they’re getting on with their lives, happy that they have lives to get on with. You’ve saved them. But all you feel is disappointment.

You start walking again. You’re fifteen now and you’re still small, but you’re strong. You see other villages, towns, cities, and you make friends in every one. You don’t have as much to fear, here; your picture hasn’t been on TV in years, and it’s not like you ever give your real name.

You walk, and it becomes a habit.

You find a family, and you leave them behind.

You have a life, and you deal with the consequences.

Your plan is successful, and Chara never speaks once.


End file.
